


Nights in Diagon Alley

by xxDustNight88



Series: Nights in Diagon Alley [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crossover, Crossover Pairings, Depression, Drinking, F/M, Loss of Virginity, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-29
Updated: 2017-01-30
Packaged: 2018-07-27 10:26:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 18,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7614526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxDustNight88/pseuds/xxDustNight88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/146849789@N04/31791064673/in/dateposted-public/"></a><img/><br/>Taking a wrong turn one night, Sherlock Holmes stumbles into an alley he never even knew existed, which is saying something considering he has all of London mapped out in his Mind Palace. With the help of Hermione Granger, he's able to learn more about himself and the world around him than he ever thought possible. (*Rating and warning for later chapters)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> This came to me the other day and the idea wouldn't leave. The chapters will be short and will be posted whenever the muse strikes me! At the moment, I have no idea how long this will actually turn out to be. I hope you enjoy! xxDustNight

Exhaling slowly, the smoke swirled above her head as it dissipated through the night air. Flicking the cigarette so that the ashy end fell away, she raised her eyebrows at the tall, dark-haired man who had just fallen over the wall and into Diagon Alley. Waiting as he pushed to his feet, hands smoothing over his fine coat to remove any dirt, Hermione Granger’s eyes widened at the realization that this man was a Muggle.

He startled upon realizing he wasn’t alone in the dark alleyway, giving her a speculative look as if anticipating hostility. Gesturing at him, cigarette in hand, she drawled, “You’re not supposed to here.”

Smirking, the man stepped forward, hands sliding deep into the pockets of his fancy coat. He stopped when he was a mere foot from her, eyebrow raised. “I was chasing a burglar, perhaps you’ve seen him?”

“No one’s been down this way except for me,” she replied, taking another draw on her cigarette and enjoying the way his eyes dropped to watch as she slowly blew the smoke out from her lips.

“And you are?”

“Hermione Granger, I own the book and tea shop right there,” she explained, using her freehand to point towards the storefront where a ‘Sorry, we’re closed’ sign currently hung on the window.

“Hmmm…” The man squinted at the display behind the glass, his eyes taking in the various books and their titles. When he glanced back at her face, there was an inquisitive look on his brow.

“What about you,” Hermione asked, dropping her finished cigarette to the ground and stamping it out with the heel of her boot. “Who might you be, climbing over walls and into dark alleyways late at night?”

She stared at him for a moment as he clearly contemplated whether or not to answer her truthfully. She smiled when his posture relaxed ever so slightly, the frown line across his forehead smoothing out. Her own curiosity piqued; she waited eagerly for his response, her hand twitching closer to the pocket where her wand was hidden. Finally, the man smirked, the corner of his mouth lifting the tiniest bit.

“Sherlock Holmes.”


	2. Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m glad to see so many of you re enjoying this so far! Thank you! The good thing about drabbles, being able to update more frequently! Here’s another chapter! If you’re into Hermione alternate pairings & crossover universes, check out Hermione’s Haven (18+ Only) on Facebook! Thanks to Dramione84 for helping me with this little plot bunny!

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Pouring hot water into the cups so the tea could steep, Hermione watched as Sherlock perused the book shelves that lined the outer walls of her store. She’d been rather shocked by his sudden appearance, but rather than _obliviate_ the strange man and send him on his way, she’d instead invited him inside for tea. The urge to find out how he could penetrate the magical community was more overpowering than the thought of getting in trouble for violating the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy.

Sitting down at one of the small café style tables at the front of the shop, Hermione stirred two sugar cubes into her tea, waiting for Sherlock to come and join her. He was finding the myriad of books and their names quite fascinating. He kept pulling them from their place on the shelves and wordlessly mouthing the titles while running a finger over the binding. Finally, it seemed he’d seen enough, stalking towards her table.

The book he had in hand fell onto the tabletop with a loud thunk before he crumpled into the chair opposite her. Steadily meeting her inquisitive gaze, he used two fingers to slide the text across the space between them, so she could see what he’d brought over.

“Alchemy, Ancient Art and Science by Argo Pyrites,” she read aloud, biting back a grin before taking a sip of her tea.

“The pictures move.”

“They do,” she responded easily. “How do you take your tea?”

“Where am I?”

Sighing, Hermione set aside her own tea before slumping in her chair. She observed the dark, curly-haired man as he glanced from the book on the table to the rest of the shop, and then back to her face. Biting her lip, she tried to decide just how much he could be trusted with. After all, he’d said he was chasing a burglar when he fell over the wall earlier—he could be Muggle police or even a conspiracy theorist. Finally deciding she could always use a memory charm on the man, she went with the truth.

“You’re in Diagon Alley, and before you ask,” she added hastily as his mouth opened, “it’s not a place known to Muggles which is why you’ve never heard of it before.”

“Muggles.” He licked his lips as if tasting the word he’d just spoken aloud.

“Yes, non-magical folk.”

“Let me get this straight,” Sherlock began, leaning forward, hands steepled under his chin. “I am in a place I’ve never heard of; diagrams in textbooks move on their own, and you’re insinuating that you are able to do magic?”

“Yes.” His eyes narrowed with annoyance as he mulled over her answer, and she found herself smiling despite the situation. “I can show you, if you’d like.”

“How?”

“Like this.” Pulling her wand from the pocket of her jumper, she watched as his eyes widened, taking in the wooden object in her hand. Deciding she’d best keep this simple, she swished and flicked her wand, speaking a well-used spell as she did so, “ _Wingardium leviosa_.”

Sherlock’s teacup floated into the air, and to her great surprise, he didn’t even flinch. Clearly, he’d seen some strange things in his lifetime. After a short moment, she guided the teacup back onto the table, not a single drop of the hot liquid spilling. Afraid he might try to take her wand to examine; she set it in her lap before lifting her eyebrows at him.

His face crumpled in thought, and in the next instant, he’d pushed the chair away from the table, surging to his feet. Breathing heavily, he turned and headed for the door without a word, but stopped just before his hand touched the doorknob. Apparently having second thoughts, he turned and moved swiftly to tower over her. She met his eyes easily enough, her face devoid of any particular emotion.

Pointing at the book on the table, he told her, “I’m taking this with me.” Then, he picked up the book on Alchemy and exited the shop, the bell above the door tinkling as he abruptly disappeared into the night.

Calmly, Hermione picked up her tea and took another sip, idly wondering if she’d ever see the strange man again. Sherlock Holmes he’d said his name was. What a curious fellow indeed.

And a handsome one at that.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another one I wrote up today while getting a pedicure. I do hope I'm getting Sherlock's character right. This is the first time I'm writing him! Thank you to those that commented, followed, and left kudos! I'm heading out of the country this weekend on holiday so I'm not sure if you'll see another update until I get back, but never fear, I will be writing as I relax on the beach!

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"I see you've decided to come back," Hermione quipped, taking a long drag on her cigarette as she watched Sherlock jump down from the wall. He said nothing as he strode forward, eyes trained on the smoke billowing over her head as she exhaled.

"Those will kill you," he stated, his voice so deep it seemed to rumble from his chest. He then plucked the cigarette from her dainty fingers only to put it between his own lips.

She watched intently as he inhaled deeply before tipping his head back, the smoke funneling out of his mouth slowly. Wetting her lips, Hermione wasn't even angry when he dropped the half-finished cigarette to the ground before stubbing it out with the toe of his perfectly polished shoe.

Realizing she was staring, she cleared her throat and glanced away to stare down the darkened Diagon Alley. It was always so peaceful this time of night which was why she liked to stay late at the shop. When the silence ticked on, she turned back smiling smugly.

"I take it you believe me then, about what I told you the other night."

"Come," he said in response, his left hand dropping to push gently at her lower back. He guided her towards the door, his palm surprisingly warm through her thin jumper. "You owe me a cup of tea."

"Me?" Her reply came out on a laugh, eyebrows raised as they entered the shop. "I made you a perfectly good cuppa the other night which you walked out on."

"Nonsense."

She thought she saw his lips twitch ever so slightly, but perhaps it was her imagination. She was surprised that she let him lead her to the table they sat previously, gesturing for her to sit. Then, he moved behind the counter and bags preparing tea.

As she was about to explain where everything was located, Hermione realized he knew exactly where to find the teabags, cups, spoons, sugar, and even the kettle that she'd washed and pit away earlier. When he finally joined her at the table, he slid a cup prepared just as she liked it in front of her before elegantly swooping into the chair across from her.

"How did you do that?"

"What?" One eyebrow lifted in inquiry as he stirred his tea, watching her as she struggled with her next words.

"Know where to find everything—I never told you, and you were browsing the shelves last time you were here."

"I've been told I'm observant." He set his cup down, turning it just so.

She said nothing, letting a strangely comfortable sort of silence fall between them. Holding up a finger, he reached into his jacked and produced the book he'd taken. Sliding it across in much the same manner as last time, he tapped the cover.

"This belongs to you."

"I'm well aware. I was hoping you'd bring it back. That books goes for about thirteen galleons."

"Thirteen gallons?" Sherlock made a face, brow crinkling and lips lifting. It was funny to see such a look on his elegant features.

Laughing again, Hermione replied, "No, _Galleons_ —wizard money." When he still made no indication he understood what she was going on about, she held up one finger for him to wait while she jumped up to visit the register. Coming back over she set down the three coins in front of him on the table. "This big one is a galleon, middle is a sickle, and the smallest is a knut."

"How very peculiar," he said in a near whisper as she sat back down. Gently, he touched each one with the tip of a finger, examining the coins. "May I?"

"Have them? Sure, I don't see why not."

"I don't want your till to be shirt on my account, Ms. Granger."

"Please, I own the place. Take them, but please don't share them with anyone else. “She smiled when he, almost shyly, picked up each coin before stowing them away in his coat pocket.

For the next few minutes they sipped tear tea in silence, observing one another almost cautiously. Whoever this strange man was, he seemed to be important, or at least influential. Setting her empty teacup aside, she knew there wouldn't be much more conversation this night, and was proven right when he stood, gathering the sides of his coat together. "Thank you, for the coins and the tea."

"Oh, you're welcome," she replied, smiling as she too stood, following him towards the door. Before they reached the entrance, he stopped again, snagging a book from the shelf. With raised eyebrows she added, "This is a book store, Sherlock, not a library."

"I think we both know I'll return it." With an exaggerated wink, he threw open the door and disappeared into the night.

Stepping outside, Hermione glanced up and down the shop-lined road, glad to find Diagon Alley deserted. If anyone of her kind knew what she was up to, there would be hell to pay.


	4. Four

About a week later, Hermione was locking the front door to her shop and thinking she'd probably never see Sherlock again when it happened. She'd come outside every night to smoke her cigarette only to be disappointed when he hadn't shown. Now, she was angry, mostly at herself, for becoming used to his visits after only a few short meetings. It was in her slightly agitated state that the hand came down on her shoulder without warning.

In less than a second, she'd pulled her wand from her coat pocked, whirled around, and cast an expelliamus. Unfortunately, as it turns out, it wasn't a wizard trying to mug her, it was Sherlock, an unarmed Muggle. He went soaring backwards to the ground, his eyes wide and arms flailing. He hit the ground hard, a grunt leaving him upon impact. Gasping, Hermione dropped down to her knees, grabbing for his arm.

"Oh! Oh Merlin, Sherlock--I'm so sorry! I didn't know it was you. Are you alright? Shit."

"I believe I am," he answered, coughing a  bit as he sat up on the cobblestone road. He rubbed a hand over his chest where the spell hit him before meeting her worried eyes. "What was that?"

"A disarming spell. I thought you were a mugger!" Helping him to his feet, she added, "We should really get you checked by a doctor or something. You could be seriously hurt."

"Never mind that," he replied, waving away her concern. "I live with a doctor. I shall have him examine me when I return."

"You live with a doctor?"

"He's also a blogger."

"A blogger," she asked incredulously.

"A blogger is someone who-"

Laughing, she held up a hand. "I know what a blogger is, Sherlock. I grew up in the Muggle world, both my parents are dentists."

"Ah."

Hermione got the impression he was disappointed in not being able to explain this to her, so she smiled warmly and tucked away her wand. "So how are you going to explain what happened to you without him asking too many questions?"

"I trust John with my life," Sherlock said in all seriousness as if the question insulted him. "He is perfectly trustworthy and would never tell a soul about your world."

"Are you trying to tell me he already knows?"

Looking almost guilty, he replied, "I might have asked if he'd ever heard of Diagon Alley when he questioned where I kept disappearing."

Hermione's eyebrows shot right to her hairline. "Oh! And what did he say?"

"He asked if I'd been using again."

"You do drugs?"

"It's not important." Turning his back on her, Sherlock ran a hand through his perfectly mussed hair. "I haven't brought it up to him since, but I've been doing research, trying to find more information."

"What did you find," Hermione inquired, her grin growing at the look of frustration he gave her as he turned around.

"Absolutely nothing."

"What do you want to know?"

He didn't even wait a beat before answering. "Everything."

Sighing, she held out her hand palm up. "Do you trust me?"

Sherlock glanced at her hand briefly before slowly laying his on top. His smooth, leather gloves slid easier between her fingers as they intertwined, and Hermione's stomach fluttered.

"Undoubtedly."

"Then you'd better hold on tight." Before he had a chance to reply, Hermione tugged the tall man into her side, freehhand reaching into her pocket to grasp firmly at her wand. Then, with a smirk that made Sherlock's eyes go wide, she apparated them out of Diagon Alley with a pop!


	5. Five

A few weeks later, Hermione and Sherlock sat on the floor of her flat, surrounded by books from her first two years at Hogwarts. Luckily, she only lived upstairs of her shop, making it much easier for Sherlock to come and visit. In the two weeks since she'd begun showing him more and more about the Wizarding world, they'd explored most of the relatively safe places for her to  _ apparate _ them to. When they weren't traveling, they stayed in so Sherlock could read all her books. 

Falling backwards, Hermione stretched out on the floor, her back aching from being bent over the coffee table. She peered up at Sherlock through half lidded eyes, examining him closely as he flipped through her potions book from second year. With a sigh, she propped herself up with her elbows.

“This is so funny. It's like being back at Hogwarts,” she giggled, tipping her head to smile at Sherlock when he glanced up at her.

“Hogwarts was where you went to school, correct?”

“It was, and I would spend endless hours pouring over my books revising and researching.” Wetting her lips, she added, “Although I somehow managed to get to bed at a regular hour back then.”

“Am I keeping you awake? I can't take a few of these with me so you can sleep.” As he said this, Sherlock began gathering a few of the books he'd been perusing over the past two hours.

“Oh no,” Hermione exclaimed, sitting up and reaching out to stop him. “Tomorrow is Sunday and I open the shop later, so I don't mind. Besides,” she continued, “I was thinking you might like a nightcap before you head out.”

“A nightcap.” Sherlock repeated her words not as a question but as a statement. He watched her hesitantly as she pushed to her feet, hands falling into his lap. 

“Sure, I have butterbeer and firewhiskey.” As she spoke, Hermione made her way to the small eat-in kitchen, opening the refrigerator door and rummaging around inside. “Which would you prefer to try?”

Glancing over her shoulder, she realized Sherlock looked bewildered by her beverage options. Taking pity on the man, she grabbed two butterbeers from the refrigerator and the bottle of Odgen’s off the counter before taking two tumblers from the cupboard. Coming back into the living room, she placed everything on coffee table and rejoined Sherlock on the floor.

“Firewhiskey is the Wizard equivalent of Muggle whiskey, only much stronger. Burns a bit more going down, rather.” She indicated the bottle, uncapping it to pour a splash into the two glasses. “Then there's butterbeer, a sweet beverage with hardly any alcohol content. It was the only liquor we really got to drink as underage wizards back at school.”

“Fascinating. Your community has created many alternatives to what  _ Muggles _ have grown accustomed to.” 

“Yes, but in some areas we are far behind. Technology is nearly nonexistent.” 

“Owls instead of electronic mail.”

“Quills instead of pens.”

“I believe I am starting to understand your world more and more, Ms. Granger.”

Sliding a bottle and a glass across the coffee table, Hermione smirked. “So what's it going to be, Mr. Holmes?”

Contemplating his options, Sherlock shot her a penetrating look before reaching out, his long fingers circling the tumbler of whiskey. Hermione was grinning widely as he met her stare, already grabbing for her own glass.

“Whiskey it is! Cheers to broadening our minds and new friendships!”

“Indeed.”

  
With a clink, Hermione and Sherlock toasted their new companionship before delving back into the books, neither minding that it was half two in the morning. Together they finished a quarter of the Odgen’s before Sherlock finally climbed over the wall behind her shop just as the sun came up. Smiling to herself, Hermione smoked one last cigarette before heading upstairs to bed, thoughts of Sherlock and his dark, curly hair and ever changing eyes swimming in her head. 


	6. Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You're in luck. Wrote this up on the beach today.

“Tell me about Dr. Watson,” Hermione prompted. “John, I mean.”

She watched as Sherlock exhaled slowly, his fingers steepled under his chin. As his eyes slowly closed, Hermione began to wonder if John was a sore subject for him. After all, he hardly ever mentioned his live-in companion. It had been about three months since they began spending nights together, and Hermione felt like Sherlock knew far more about her life than she did his.

Or at least her world.

If she was being honest, Sherlock never asked about her personal life either, even though he did peruse her smattering of moving photos and flipped through her stack of unopened mail from time to time. Sometimes though, when she liked to pretend he thought she wouldn't notice, she felt him observing her as if trying to figure out who exactly she was. She suspected he liked observing her as much as she enjoyed observing him.

When Sherlock opened his eyes they were stormy, as if speaking about John was hard for him. Sipping her tea, she waited patiently while he straightened his back where he sat in the teashop. She knew he'd come to some sort of conclusion when his eyes cleared and he met her gaze.

“John is my partner. He and I work cases together for Scotland Yard, solving crimes when they need a keen eye.” Smirking, he relaxed a fraction, reaching for his own cup of tea. “I'm a consulting detective. The only one in the world. I invented the job, and I took John in when he came back from the war.”

“You seem sad.”

“Not sad, no. More, troubled, I suppose, than anything these days.”

“What happened?”

“The usual. I faked my death to save him, and many others, only to return and find that he's besotted with Mary with the intention of marrying her.”

Frowning, Hermione set aside her cup. Intrigued, and also slightly disappointed, she inquired further. “Were you two...a couple…?”

“No. It never came to that in formality, and now he and Mary are wed with a child on the way.”

“I thought you said he lived with you?”

“Technically, he does not. He spends an abundance of time at my flat, however. We still run many cases together.”

Feeling a mixture of relief and embarrassment, for some reason, Hermione hid her face behind her teacup as she took a gulp of the slowly cooling liquid. The way he spoke of John indicated that he loved him, and now she had to figure out whether or not it was a romantic type of love, or the kind she shared with Harry.

“I'm sorry for bringing it up.”

“Do not apologize. John and I are very good friends, the best as he likes to remind me.” With his own tea finished, Sherlock stood preparing to leave. He tucked a few books inside of his long coat before tying his scarf round his neck. “It is quite late, I shall see if I can make it back tomorrow evening.”

“You're angry.”

She hated that her words came out so pained, so quiet. He stopped his abrupt exit, turning to face her, head tilted with examination. Sometimes she felt like he could read her very mind.

“Not at all.”

“Then, why are you leaving? It's not even quarter to one yet.” She bit the inside of her cheek, willing herself to stop talking, laying all her feelings in the air between them with a few simple words.

“You look tired.”

“I am.”  _ But not of you. _

“Let me ask you something then, if I might.”

“Of course.” She swallowed, suddenly uncertain of what she was agreeing to.

He moved closer, not bothering to undo his scarf or remove his coat. He towered over her where she sat, forcing her head to tip backwards to keep him in sight. There were so many things he could ask her about, of this she was certain. His hand was splayed flat against the tabletop, holding him in place as he peered down into her chocolate eyes.

“You've isolated yourself.”

It wasn't a question, but she still knew he expected an explanation. What to say? Inhaling sharply, she just shrugged her shoulders.

“I...don't think that I am.”

Moving his head to glance around her little shop, the frown on his face grew. Then he was looking at her again, deeper almost. His eyes glittered with light from the fireplace against the side wall, making the color swirl until she had no idea what color they actual were. She held her breath, waiting for him to say something,  _ do  _ something.

“You, like John, have seen war. I'm not certain whose war or when, but it's beaten you down to the point where you've isolated yourself here. Surrounded by your books and tea.”

“I've always found solace in books.” Clenching her jaw, she fought against the sudden urge to cry. “How did you know about that? About the war?”

“I’ve told you, I am perceptive. Exceptionally so.”

“What else do you know about me? That I haven't told you?”

Standing upright, Sherlock backed away from her, shaking his head as he moved towards the door again. “I believe neither of us are quite ready for that, Ms. Granger.”

Heart pounding, she nodded, agreeing with him to an extent. Before he could leave, she pointed to the shelf of books in the corner.

“Top row, far right.”

He didn't question her. He didn't even glance her way as he slid the book from the shelf. What surprised her the most was when he tucked the book into his jacked without even reading the title, silently slipping out the door and back into the night. 

It was only after the bell above the door had quieted and Sherlock could no longer be seen through the shop window, when Hermione finally let out the breath she'd unknowingly been holding. 


	7. Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When you're stuck in the airport, you finish your chapter and post it! This one is a bit longer than a normal drabble due to Sherlock's deduction. Also, HUGE thanks to Dramione84 because without her, the deduction wouldn't be half as good as it is! Thank you girl...you're legit the best! I need your brain!

Sherlock didn't show the next night, or even the night after that. In fact, after four nights Hermione was starting to think he was going to stay away for real this time. She'd settled back into a normal routine...She'd close up her shop around nine or ten depending on foot traffic, have her last cigarette, and then head upstairs to warm dinner before crashing for the night.

Actually, she was already looking forward to the leftover wedding soup she'd cooked that weekend when she heard the door open, the bell tinkling in the quiet shop. With her back to the door as she finished sweeping the floor, Hermione was immediately irritated that she'd forgotten to lock the damned thing. Setting aside her broom, she turned to ask the customer to come back in the morning.

“Sorry, we're closed…”

The words died off when she realized it was Sherlock standing there, an unreadable expression on his face. She stumbled, grabbing the back of a chair for balance. She really had thought he was gone for good. Blinking stupidly, Hermione realized she should really say something, but wasn't sure what. The last time they were together she'd broached an uncomfortable topic and then sent him off with the sordid history of the Dark Lord.

“Sherlock...I…”

“Presumed I would not return. I gathered as much from the look of surprise on your face.”

“Right.”

“ _ The Rise and Fall of the Dark Lord. _ ”

Plopping into the chair she previously was holding onto, Hermione swallowed hard. She knew what kind of conversation would come next, and she wasn't entirely sure she was mentally prepared for it.

“I thought you might like some insight...to understand the way I am a bit clearer. It's not like my war was shared in newspapers or flashed across television screens in the Muggle world. We suffered alone, for the most part.”

Striding forward, Sherlock joined her at the table, pulling the book they were discussing from his coat as he did so. He set the text between them on the table and then sat back to untie his scarf.

“You've finished it then,” she muttered, stating the obvious.

“I've read it four times. You'll find annotations in the margins.”

“What?! That book was for sale, not for you to write all over.” She grabbed for the book, but Sherlock's fingers wrapped around her wrist quickly.

“I will pay for it, but that's not important. Why didn't you tell me about this?”

“About what? Voldemort? The War?” Sherlock sighed and she realized he hadn't let go of her wrist yet. Relaxing a smidge, she continued, her voice nearly a whisper, “I didn't think it was important for you to know. I never thought you'd keep coming back after that first night. It's refreshing to have someone who's interested in learning as much as I am. I guess I was afraid to scare you away.”

“You'll find I'm not easily terrified.”

“How am I to know that,” she exclaimed honestly. “We hardly know one another besides names and the basics. Merlin, I just learned what you do for a living four nights ago.”

Frowning, Sherlock released her wrist to tap his fingers on the tabletop. “I can see you more clearly now. You're more readable than before.”

“Excuse me? Readable. Like I'm some sort of book.”

“If that's the way you would like to look at it, yes.” His voice was low, it rumbled in his chest.

“Well, what would  _ you  _ call it then?”

“Deductions. I'm known for my accurate deductions of people and situations, it's what a consulting detective does.”

“Alright...Go on, then. Tell me what you  _ think _ you know about me.” She could tell she was becoming a bit frantic, but she tried to hold it back.

“Are you most certain, because I've been told to piss off on occasion?”

“I survived far worse--bullying, torture, heartbreak. I think I can take a bit of whatever it is you're about to do.”

She pursed her lips and raised an eyebrow in challenge, waiting for him to explain her to...well, herself. He'd told her he was perceptive, now she was going to find out exactly  _ how _ perceptive he really could be. Inhaling deeply, Sherlock began.

“You're a witch in her late thirties that's somehow managed to isolate herself despite having an over abundance of caring friends.” He paused here, a sort-of smirk playing on his lips as if daring Hermione to tell him to stop.

When she said nothing, he continued, “From our short conversation, and the books I've read, I take it that you had a rather large hand in the outcome of your Wizarding war, but have not been able to find peace. The purple splotches under your eyes indicate a lack of sleep. My guess is nightmares about said war, although they are few and far between...just often enough to keep you from a proper sleep regime.” He indicated the circles under her brown eyes as he said this, his words coming faster and faster as he picked up momentum.

“Additionally,” Sherlock drawled, “your PTSD has caused you to pull away from your friends, and effectively sabotage the few relationships you've had over the years. You're estranged from your parents, but you still think about them constantly.”

When Hermione flinched at this, Sherlock canted his head, curious as to why that was such a pained subject for her. Nevertheless, he couldn't stop now.

“Your smoking habit is just that, a habit. Not an addiction. You'd rather drink than smoke, but the fear of becoming an alcoholic is far greater than your fear of trying to quit smoking. Owning this bookshop is something you enjoy, but it's not your passion. That lies somewhere in politics, but you haven't taught me about Wizarding politics yet. You've always dreamed of making waves instead of ripples, creating new legislation and bettering the world around you, but something stopped you. Something drastic caused you to open this shop, to hide yourself away among the books you love so much.”

Pausing again, he smirked at the flabbergasted look on Hermione’s face. He was enjoying this far more than usual.

“This has led you into a depression of which you were not expecting. Your therapist wants you to take medicine for your depression, but instead you suffer through the days, unsure exactly what it is you've done to deserve such a fate even if it was self-inflicted. Because of the immense amount of pressure you feel to be perfect and together, you've buried your true identity away until you're nothing but a shell of your former self. Instead, you practice destructive habits...the smoking, occasional drinking, the late nights, and your new found disregard for rules and regulations, in the hopes that someone may actually notice you for more than your brain or  _ unbelievably _ bushy head of hair.”

Her hand fluttered to unconsciously smooth out her frizzy hair, the frown on her face growing as she did so. Sherlock's eyes flickered from her eyes to her abundance of hair, causing him to lean closer, closing the distance between them at the tiny table until their faces were mere breaths apart.

“Your hair has always been a source of hurt, possibly a key variable in the relentless bullying you endured while at school. Something else is there though...why not change your hair as you got older? Someone grew to like it,  _ love _ it even, someone, no,  _ the  _ someone who previously tormented you. They were the reason you hid behind books, and  _ that's _ the reason you're here now--selling books and tea as a way to compensate for the emotional trauma of a failed relationship.”

Excitement lit Sherlock's eyes from within, and he sat back in the chair again, spreading his hands flat on the table top.

“Here it's easy to pretend you're  _ normal _ , that you're not striving to reach some sort of unattainable level of perfection. You assume your friends expect you to be perfect, so you beat yourself up, making it nearly impossible to function, so that no one realizes there's anything wrong. That you haven't somehow gotten lost on the road of life, all so you appear their perfect picture of perfection as horrible as that sounds.”

With a quick burst, Sherlock inhaled, ready to conclude his deduction. “Here you can be your own boss, and even your own worst enemy. Day in and day out you hide yourself away, painting the picture of mediocre happiness and self-fulfillment. That's why you enjoy my company so much--you don't have to pretend to be any less brilliant, you don't have to pretend to be something you are not. You can be Hermione Granger, smartest witch of her age, brilliant in every way possible without judgement, all because I'm new. I'm this new, seemingly unknowledgeable sod who needs a proper teacher in order to be on your level.”  

When he'd finished, Sherlock took a steadying breath as if his deduction of her had taken a large toll on him. Hermione swallowed, her throat hurting from holding back errant tears. Leveling him with her angriest glare, she pointed at the door, seething.

“Out. Get  _ out. _ ”

He stood without question, without surprise even, and headed toward the exit. As he was tying his scarf back around his neck, Hermione cleared her throat, ashamed by the stray tear that slid down her flushed cheek. Sherlock stopped, holding the door open as he waited for her to say something more.

“I...need some time...to cool off. Will you return in...a couple nights?”

He nodded, back still facing her before swiftly leaving her alone. Dropping her face into her hands, Hermione decided that he was right. He really  _ was _ excellent at deductions.

“Damn it.”


	8. Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! So I’m back to work, teaching. I’m exhausted. I will be taking things slowly with this until Wolves without Teeth is finished. In the meantime, take the time to pop over to fanfiction.net and read Dramione84’s Finding Mr Holmes which is based off of this story! Thanks for all the comments, follows, and kudos! I love you all so very much! xxDustNight

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Harry laughed as Hermione poured the hot water into both their teacups, her eyes firmly on the table. She raised them then to glare at him, and his laughter died but the smile remained on his face.

“What’s so funny?”

“This,” he replied, gesturing at the table between them. “You. The fact that you’re making me tea right now when we haven’t hardly spoken in months.”

Frowning, Hermione set aside the teapot, inhaling sharply through her nose. “Well, what was there to say really?”

“You could have started with ‘I’m leaving the MLE to open a tea and bookshop because Draco and I broke up’.”

Her jaw clenched as she stirred sugar into her tea, the spoon clinking angrily against the sides of the cup. Harry was probably right…maybe. She should have talked to her friends before just turning in her letter of resignation to Kingsley and opening the shop, but she’d been heartbroken, and angry…never a good mixture of emotions.

“It wasn’t all because of what happened with Draco,” she began, shooting him another dark look when he opened his mouth to argue. “It _wasn’t_ , but that was the main reason. I will admit that.”

“He still asks about you, you know?”

“He’s tried sending me an owl a few times too.”

“So what’s the big deal? Forgive him and move on. You two were happy together.”

“It’s not that simple,” she trailed off, looking out the front window into the night beyond. “I—I think I’ve met someone.”

Harry slammed him teacup back down onto the table, eyes growing wide behind his dark-framed glasses. “What!?” He spluttered, nearly choking, “Who did you meet?”

“He’s a Muggle, and he somehow managed to find Diagon Alley. We’ve been talking for months now—he comes here at night, after I’ve closed the shop.”

“A Muggle. In Diagon Alley?”

“Yes,” she said with narrowed eyes, already fearing where the conversation was about to head. “The anti-Muggle charms and enchantments do not seem to work on him, at all.”

“Wow,” came Harry’s quiet reply. They sat there drinking their tea, both trying to figure out what to say next. Hermione was trying to read harry, a feat that seemed impossible now, after all the time spent apart. “You’re supposed to report Muggle sightings, Hermione…not encourage them.”

“I’m well aware of that, Harry.” Crossing her arms she added, “I _was_ Head of the MLE, after all.”

“Was. Past tense.”

“For fuck’s sake, Harry,” she exclaimed, anger bubbling to the surface. “What did you expect me to do? Bind the poor fellow and then send an owl to my _ex-boyfriend_ , the man who now holds my previous position, saying ‘Hurry! Quick! Draco, there’s a Muggle bound behind my shop. I need your help!’”

“Not in those exact words, but yes.”

“Sweet Salazar,” she grumbled, eyes rolling so hard her eyelids flickered dramatically. “Look, I understand you and Draco became all buddy-buddy after the war from being forced to work together, but he hurt my feelings—badly—and I have no intention of running back to him. Now, or ever.”

“It was a misunderstanding.”

“He told his father I was a bushy-haired know-it-all.”

“You _are_ a bushy-haired know-it-all,” Harry practically whined, smiling when she failed to land a slap to his shoulder. He faltered when her face grew serious.

“He _also_ told his father he would _take care of it_ when I explicitly told Lucius I would not be the kind of Malfoy woman to quit my job and stay at home to breed.”

Finally Harry’s face fell. “He said that?”

“Yes!” Throwing up her hands, Hermione shouted her frustration. “They all expected me to adhere to the insipid Malfoy Pureblood traditions. _Draco included._ ”

“I never knew…”

“You never _asked_.”

“But why leave everything behind? You were the Head of the MLE. You were going places.”

Picking at the sleeve of her jumper, Hermione couldn’t help the sadness that crept into her voice as she strained to answer. “He wouldn’t back down, and said he never would. He wanted me as his wife, but could not see our relationship surviving if we married and I stayed the Head of MLE. He didn’t want the pressure from his mother and father if I stayed where I was.”

“Why not just break things off then? Why quit your job?”

“I couldn’t stand seeing him every day—I loved him desperately, and he broke my heart completely.” She took a shuddering breath, trying not to cry just yet. “He promised he’d never turn back into the version of himself that grew up torturing me, but he lied, and I couldn’t stand the thought of looking into his eyes everyday knowing we could have had it all.”

Standing up, Harry walked around the small table and knelt beside his long-time friend. He took her hand in his and squeezed gently, forehead falling against her arm. He felt her body begin to shake as tears consumed her, but he never let go, never left her side. Finally, when he felt she’d cried herself out, he glanced up to find her staring down into his face.

“Have you stopped going to your therapist?”

He expected her to lie, to say ‘no, to shrug out of his grasp and tell him to leave, angry. Instead, she swallowed hard and nodded, a few stray tears leaking from the corner of her eyes.

“I haven’t gone for a while now…”

“Hermione, promise me you’ll go tomorrow. Alright?”

“Of course. I promise.”

“Good,” Harry answered, pushing to his feet and digging in his pocket for a handkerchief. Hermione took it and dabbed at her face, sniffling now and then as he moved back to his empty chair. “Now, tell me about this Muggle, this man that’s managed to come and go in a Wizarding sector without setting off any alarms.”

“Oh Harry…he’s so different. Smart and handsome, and yet, he’s closed off and mysterious at the same time. He hardly ever speaks, but when he does he goes on for long period of time, and it’s like he’s reciting from a book, speaking right into my soul.” Her face furrowed again, and she glanced aside, crumbling Harry’s handkerchief into a ball.

“What’s wrong?”

“He—he somehow guessed…or rather _inferred_ my entire life, my entire character, just by being in my presence. It’s amazing really, but at the same time, it kind of irked me. It’s hard to have someone point out all your faults and insecurities.”

“He’s insulted you?”

“No, not _really_. He’s just made me realize I’ve been quite foolish about so many things.” She bit her lip, meeting Harry’s heavy gaze and trying not to grimace at the doubt she saw there. “I know what you’re thinking, and it’s nothing like what Draco did. Draco assumed I’d cave and be some proper version of a Pureblooded wife just because we loved one another. Sherlock Holmes, well, I don’t even know if he actually _likes_ me. He might just be interested in me for my advanced knowledge of the Wizarding community.”

“Holmes.”

“That’s his name.”

“I feel like I’ve read that name somewhere before.”

“Well, he faked his death a few years ago in the Muggle world. Perhaps you read it in the papers.” She handed him back the handkerchief, and he took it without complaint, his eyes staring far off as if remembering something.

“No…I feel like I’ve read it somewhere else—here, in the Wizarding world a long time ago. In a journal, or something.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. He never even knew about us until a few months ago.”

Jumping up from his seat, Harry headed to the door, donning his jacket as he did so. “I have some research to do. Be careful, this man could be dangerous. When is he coming back?”

“Tomorrow night, maybe? I don’t know…he just kind of shows up.”

“I want to meet him. Tell him that.” Before leaving, he added, “It was nice to see you. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

When he’d gone and the quiet settled in around Hermione, she couldn’t help but wonder if Harry was right. Had he read about Sherlock before? Was he dangerous? Either way, dangerous or not, Hermione was looking forward to seeing him again, even if it was just to tell him to sod off for opening old wounds.


	9. Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I’ve been meaning to get this out since last week, but I’d left it at school over the weekend and had to wait. Then, I was just too tired…it almost didn’t get typed up tonight because I had such a horrid afternoon, but writing has always been a way for me to deal with my emotions. While my anxiety is still peaked, and I feel rather down about some things, this is for all of you. I hope you read it and it brightens your day. Love xxDustNight

Nervously, Hermione waited in the small alcove between her shop and the back wall of Diagon Alley, taking long, slow drags of her fourth cigarette. While Sherlock was accurate about her smoking habit, that didn’t stop her from anxiously puffing away like any other addict would in this situation. Add in the therapy session from earlier this afternoon, and she was a right mess. Even speaking to Harry at dinnertime wasn’t enough to calm her nerves.

  
Despite having told Sherlock he needed to stay away; she knew he would be there tonight. He was much too curious about her world, and she was much too curious about him in general. Of course, he knew this, of that she was certain. The warming charm she’d added to her jacket earlier long since faded to lukewarm, barely enough to stave off the chill of late January.

Hearing movement at the wall, she tried to remain calm and collected as she watched Sherlock drop down from the Muggle world and into hers. His eyes glittered mysteriously in the semidarkness as he strolled forward the epitome of relaxation. Offering him the cigarette silently she watched his nimble fingers flick the ash from the tip before bringing it to his lips. Afterwards, he returned it to her, allowing her the opportunity to finish and step it out on the cobblestones before finally speaking aloud.

“You’ve been to see your therapist.”

“I have,” she confirmed, shoving her now emptied hands deep into the pockets of her jacket. “I should never have stopped going in the first place.” She smiled grimly as he hummed in thoughtful response the sound familiar to her now.

“You have also talked to your friend—the one you haven’t dated.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “I wish I knew how you did that, figured out my life with just a glance. It’s brilliant.”

The corner of his mouth tipped up with amusement. “Let’s move inside. You’re cold.”

As she shivered, she didn’t bother to argue—he was right, it _was_ cold, and she’d been waiting outside for more than an hour having closed the shop early in anticipation of his arrival. Upon entering her shop, Hermione gestured to their usual table. She sat down, nibbling on her lip as she waited for him to join her. He stood next to the table removing his blue scarf and long coat, dropping them onto the back to his chair. Quirking an eyebrow, he peered down at the steaming cups of tea set on the table.

“How are these still hot? From the color of your nose and cheeks, you’ve been outside longer than an hour.”

Waving her wand, Hermione removed the spell she’d cast earlier. “Stasis charm. Once cast, it allows for objects to stay in place. It comes in rather handy on cold nights like tonight.”

“Clever,” Sherlock murmured, voice like silk as he finally took his place across from her. “John often makes me tea, but I find I forget to drink it right away…”

Hermione made a face, her nose crinkling. “Cold tea? Yuck!” She teased Sherlock, watching as he almost gave her a proper smile.

“Precisely,” he said with an exaggerated sigh, turning his cup to delicately move to his lips. Hermione suspected to hide his actual smile, for is eyes sparked just a tad more than usual then as if he was teasing her. “Quite unpleasant.”

They sipped their tea quietly for a while, both seemingly lost in their thoughts. Eventually, Hermione set her nearly empty teacup aside, meeting his gaze again. “You seem distracted tonight. Is everything okay?”

“I’m in the middle of a rather _interesting_ case,” he began, making the case seem more troublesome than thought-provoking. “I’ve been receiving letters from a man who is meant to be deceased.”

“That’s never a good sign, Sherlock; hearing from someone that’s dead.” Sitting back in her chair, Hermione crossed her arms, a deep frown taking over her pretty face. “Not at all.”

“You’ve heard of this happening before?”

“In a sense, but not with letters…not exactly.”

“Tell me more,” he intoned, leaning forward, clearly intrigued with her affirmation. His eyes drifted closed as he prepared to listen to her tale.

Relaxing ever so slightly, Hermione enjoyed the feeling of importance radiating through her as she prepared to teach Sherlock something new about her world. “Remember that book I recommended you read? The one about the Dark Lord? Well, that’s where our story begins…”

Hermione talked until her voice was nearly hoarse, until the sun started to rise and cast shadows in the tiny shop. Shadows that reminded her far too much of past she’d much rather forget, but that seemed ultimately important to Sherlock. He absorbed her every word, interjecting now and then with questions or appropriate comments. Ultimately, her tale came to an end and he sat back, eyes blinking in the dim light of the shop. Arching languidly, he stretched his arms high over his head.

Hermione watched him intensely, enjoying the way his purple button-up shirt strained over his chest. She felt something stir deep within her chest, like Cornish Pixies trying to break free of their cage. She wet her lips as his stare refocused on her face, his eyes penetratingly clear after being awake all night.

“I should be going.”

The statement hung in the air between them as if it was more of a question than a declaration. Trying not to give the game away, Hermione refrained from biting at her lips. Sherlock could read her like the books she loved to get lost in, stripping away her walls as if turning the pages of her mind until her soul was laid bare. It was a risk, what she was about to do, but she’d been closed off for far too long, sealing herself away from anything that could break her heart. Swallowing, she placed her hands flat on the table’s smooth surface, ignoring the way they trembled as she met his unwavering stare. She smiled gently, forcing herself to be brave for the first time in months, years.

“You could stay…”


	10. Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize profusely for the delay in updating this story. I do hope this chapter makes up for that! In any case, I believe this will end up having a total of 15 chapters. Enjoy! Love xxDustNight

Night was rapidly fading as they stood in the open doorway of her flat. Hermione cleared her throat, stepping over the threshold and into the small living room. Nervousness made her skin tingle, a feeling she’d not experienced in Sherlock’s presence in a very long time. Stopping in the middle of the room, she felt him behind her, the door clicking shut quietly. Taking a deep breath, she faced the dark-haired man.

Brown eyes met green, and she lost the ability to speak, the breath leaving her in a rush at the look of abject adoration on his face. Clearly, he was feeling the same intensity between them as she was, so swallowing her trepidations, she stepped forward.

“I appreciate you allowing me to stay here,” he murmured, his voice low, sultry even.

She tipped her head backward, staring up into his face, a small smile upon her lips. “You’re welcome…” She trailed off, unsure what to say next, what to _do_ next. Tucking a loose curl behind her ear, she glanced away. “I can make up the sofa for you—I’ve got a few extra blankets in the hall closet.”

As she moved to the closet, Sherlock reached out, grabbing her gently by the arm. He pulled her close, body flush against his own. She watched as his pupils dilated, the dark overtaking the beautiful luminous green. Instead of speaking, instead of fracturing the moment, she reached up to card her fingers through his dark curls. He continued to study her, those observant eyes of his taking in her every move.

She trailed her fingertips down his jaw line and over his sharp cheekbones until she could brush them over his lips. They were far softer than she imagined, and she couldn’t wait to taste them. Sliding up onto her tiptoes, her eyelids flickered shut a second before her lips tentatively brushed against his. He responded in kind, the hand not holding onto her arm coming around to spread across her lower back, urging her closer.

His tongue traced the outline of her lips, asking for entrance, and she granted it eagerly. She sighed into the kiss as he massaged her tongue with his own, finally releasing the grip upon her arm to tangle his fingers through her curls, tipping her head backward. She breathed heavily through her nose, arousal flaring in her lower belly the more intense the kiss became. She felt Sherlock begin to move them through the room, guiding her down the hall and into her bedroom.

Along the way, she began unbuttoning his shirt, sliding her hands over the planes of his pale chest. A rumble of approval vibrated through him, and she smiled into the kiss. When she felt the back of her legs hit the edge of her mattress, she separated from his mouth, but only long enough to pull her sweater up and over her head, discarding it to the side.

Sherlock’s heated gaze trailed over her, making her skin warm. Suddenly, he looked uncharacteristically insecure, so in an attempt to reassure him; she reached out, taking his hands and kissing the palms. She watched as he inhaled deeply, almost as if he was calculating his next move, before he placed his hands at her hips. He gave her a gentle push, indicating that she should sit upon the bed, so she did.

Once settled, Hermione pushed herself to the middle, Sherlock climbing on as well. He towered over her, his hands resting on either side of her body; those piercing eyes of his focused solely on her. He kissed her then, taking her breath away and sending shivers across her skin. She removed his trousers and slid out of her own, kicking them aside.

For some reason, she had the impression that he was nervous, a trembling having started in his body. She knew very little about Sherlock’s past romantic endeavors, but at the moment; she didn’t think it was important to ponder it too deeply. Deciding to take control of the situation, she rolled them so that she was straddling his waist, rubbing her heated core along his hardened length. His head punched backward into her pillow, that long neck of his beautiful in the early morning-light filtering in from outside.

She leaned over to trail kisses along his smooth skin, moaning in delight as hands massaged her thighs. His talented fingers moved to slide through her slick folds, his thumb brushing against her swollen nub and making her hips buck unexpectedly. A soft sigh left her mouth as he continued his ministrations, causing him to do it again, and then, again. “Sherlock…” she breathed, breaking the silence.

His confidence building, Sherlock nudged her gently, indicating she should roll on her back. Complying with his wishes, she did as directed, spreading her legs wide. As he settled between her, she placed her hands on his shoulders, giving him a chaste kiss. He said nothing, instead aligning himself with her opening. He looked deeply into her eyes, hips surging forward, filling her to the brim. They both moaned as their bodies were joined as one, Sherlock’s head falling forward into the crook of her neck.

Wrapping her legs around his waist, Hermione initiated their movement. Sherlock, ever eager to learn, mimicked the rhythm, slowly at first, and then with more vigor. He sucked and nibbled on her sensitive flesh of her neck, adding to the pleasure she was feeling. She met him thrust for thrust; the coiling desire in her belly growing tighter and tighter until finally it broke free. She cried out, his name leaving her throat roughly.

He continued to move through the orgasm, until he too came undone, hips jerking erratically. Peppering his shoulders and chest with soft kisses, she murmured words of encouragement, his trembling form finally slowing. He came to a stop, a shuddering breath leaving him. Smoothing her hand over his lean chest, she pushed him to the side, smiling as he flopped over onto the bed. She immediately curled around his body, sharing her warmth with him.

His long-fingered hand came up to rub circles on her back as her leg intertwined with his. They said nothing, instead allowing the silence to speak for them, both already feeling their lack of sleep beginning to take hold. As night became day in Diagon Alley, Hermione and Sherlock had reached a new point in their relationship, and they would have to decide where to go from here.

 


	11. Eleven

It was the sounds of normalcy that awoke her later that morning. The voices and usual magic from the street below filtering their way into her bedroom. Hermione woke slowly, the realization of the night before and the early morning hours making her aware of her surroundings. Lying on her side, she was curled around where she recalled Sherlock falling asleep; however, the bed was cool as she slid her hand under the blanket.

Sitting up, she wiped the remnants of sleep from her bleary eyes, glancing toward her alarm clock. It was just barely half eleven, she realized, a good hour and or so before she was set to open the shop downstairs for the day. Slipping from the bed, Hermione was thankful to find Sherlock’s purple button-up shirt still lying on the floor. It meant he’d not left her alone, and that was reassuring. Picking up the garment, she shrugged into it, quickly doing up the front before exiting her bedroom.

She found him in the living room, wrapped in her sheet and staring blindly out the front windows into the street below. Approaching him carefully, she bit her lip as she observed his profile. He hardly blinked, barely breathed, almost as if he in a trance. “Sherlock,” she whispered, hand coming up gently to trail her fingers down his arm until she could hold his hand. He allowed her to intertwine their fingers, but still he said nothing. Worried now, afraid she’d done something wrong, she asked, “Is everything alright?”

Taking a shuddering breath, Sherlock blinked rapidly as if coming back into himself. He turned to look at her, the corner of his mouth tipping up in a reassuring manner. “Hermione,” he drawled. “I didn’t realize you were awake.”

“You seemed a million miles away.” Nervousness made her skin prickle, but she said nothing further, afraid he’d pull away.

“Hmmm…Perhaps I was.” Rotating his body so that he was now facing her directly, he lifted his freehand to thread his fingers through her tangled curls. She tilted her head, wanting to feel more of his touch. “I was in my mind palace.”

“You’re _mind palace_?” Her question came out quiet. She recalled him mentioning this before, but always in reference to working a case.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied, his large hand now cupping the back of her head, tilting it upwards. “I was storing data away to decipher at a later time.” He kissed her then, his head dropping down and taking her lips slowly, sensually.

A strangled sort of moan left her as she melted into his embrace, her worries from moments before dispersing almost entirely. There was something different to Sherlock in the daylight, and she wasn’t sure if it had to do with what transpired between them, or if she was just sleep deprived. Either way, as his tongue found its way into her mouth and she pressed her body against his, feeling his arousal, she didn’t think it mattered.

All too soon, Sherlock was unraveling himself from her hold, but he didn’t release her body, keeping her close. His mysterious eyes swept over her face, reading her like he always did. It no longer unnerved her, his peculiar way of knowing every little thing about her, down to the very essence of her thoughts. She said nothing, not wanting to break the quiet serenity that had descended between them.

“You were my first.”

His words sent her reeling, flashes of their intimate moments from this morning running through the forefront of her mind. “I’m sorry?” She couldn’t help but to ask, her curiosity getting the best of her. He ignored her inquiry, bypassing it to expound further on the topic.  

“I’ve not gone without experimentation…delving into foreplay with previous _lovers_ , but you—you were the first I’ve been with in such an intimate manner.” As he spoke, his hands glided up and down her arms, causing goosebumps to rise despite her being covered in his shirt. Closing the slight space between then, Sherlock brushed the curls from her face. “I did not expect to feel such a connection with you, Hermione. It’s astounding, you’ve penetrated my very soul.”

Blinking, Hermione had no idea how to respond to that, so she did the only thing she could think of. She threw her hands around his neck, her lips crashing onto his in a searing kiss. He responded in kind, his long fingers digging into her back, pulling her closer to his body. At some point the sheet separating their bodies fell to the floor, pooling at their feet. Jumping, Hermione wrapped her legs around his waist. He held her fast, turning them so he could secure her back against the wall.

Sherlock broke the kiss to trail wet, hot kisses down her neck only stopping to sink his teeth into the sensitive flesh where it met her shoulder. She sighed with pleasure, head tipping back and her hips grinding into his hardened length. She was so ready for him, his words from earlier and heated kisses turning her on more than she’d ever been in her entire life.

Understanding her urgency, Sherlock readjusted himself so that the tip of his cock was at her entrance. Her hips bucked of their own accord, her natural instincts seeking him out. Returning his lips to hers, he wasted no time, wanting her as much as she wanted him. He sank into her slowly, purposefully, claiming her as his own. Walls clenching, Hermione trembled in his arms, feeling completely full, physically and emotionally.

Tentatively, he withdrew before snapping his hips forward again, earning a cry of pleasure from the witch. Smirking into the crook of her neck, he did it again, and then, again. Each time sent waves of pleasure through her core, making her very nerve endings feel aflame. He too was feeling the effects of their lovemaking, the desire building within him until he thought it would drive him mad.

Their movements grew more frantic, the closer they each grew to that blissful peak. Hermione’s hands ranked over his naked back, writing love notes with her fingernails. He mumbled incoherently, hips pounding into her almost painfully, but she didn’t mind. She met him thrust for thrust, grinding into him just as hard, just as urgent.

He came first, grunting out her name as his cock emptied deep within her. She coaxed him on, kissing him wherever she could, memorizing the taste of his skin. As he continued moving within her, she let herself come undone, the desire in her spiraling out of control. Her legs tightened around his waist, holding her in place as she cried out. When the silence returned, save the sound of their heavy breathing, Sherlock carried her to the sofa, lying her down carefully before crawling beside her.

Feeling sated and infinitely sleepy, Hermione let her eyes drift closed, head resting on his chest. The sound of his beating heart soothed her, making her realize just how _alive_ she was right now, having spent far too long in a darkness of her own making. Perhaps he felt the same way, and she had every intention of asking him, but at that moment, there was a sharp rapping at her door. It startled them both, their eyes snapping open, brown meeting green.

“You should probably answer that.”

“I don’t have to…they’ll probably go away shortly,” she replied, snuggling closer to his warmth. When she noticed his reluctance in the form of a lifted eyebrow, she added, “You don’t think so? Who is it then?”

“Your previous lover—the one that broke you.”

He was so sure of himself that Hermione wanted to say he was wrong, but through the door there came a voice, one she would know anywhere.

“Granger? I know you’re in there! Open the door, we need to talk.”

Her mouth popped open in surprise, eyes darting toward the door. Heart pounding, Hermione hated to admit, but Sherlock was right. Draco Malfoy was indeed the one asking for entrance to her flat, and he didn’t sound happy. Not at all. Swallowing her pride, she closed her eyes before calling out her answer, needing to block out Sherlock’s knowing smirk.

“I’m here…be with you in a moment…”


	12. Twelve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really want to take the time to thank Dramione84 for not only pushing me to ignore the word count on this chapter (it’s really long for this fic), but also for helping me dig into my inner Hermione for this one. She also made sure the deductions between Draco and Sherlock were as excellent as they should be before letting me off the hook. Thank you for always pushing me to be the very best, Lizzie! If you haven’t done so already, make sure to check out her story, Finding Mr. Homes, which is based off of this one! Love xxDustNight

It took very little time for Hermione to rush into her bedroom, find her discarded clothing from the night before, and quickly redress. Sherlock joined her shortly thereafter, taking his shirt as she handed it to him, an apologetic look upon her face as she did so. Having little to no idea why Draco would be at her flat unannounced had her reeling, and she found she couldn’t meet Sherlock’s eyes for some reason.

He’d deduced her relationship with her ex-lover so perfectly, she felt exposed now. Stopping as she passed her vanity, she self-consciously tried to flatten her frizzy hair, knowing she looked exactly as if she’d just enjoyed copious amounts of sex. Which she had, but that was beside the point. Draco didn’t need to know that.

Deciding it was a lost cause, she ignored Sherlock’s pointed stare and returned to the living room. Striding toward her front door, she took a deep, calming breath before reaching for the handle. Quickly, so she wouldn’t lose her nerve, Hermione opened the door revealing a slightly disgruntled Draco.

Neither said a word as she held the door wide, silently inviting him inside her home. He’d never been here before, the flat new from when she’d taken ownership of the shop below. She swallowed nervously as she watched him take in the small space. Closing the door, Hermione moved toward the sofa, trying to figure out why he was here.

“Do you want to sit down?”

Draco stopped, slowly turning so he was facing her fully. He nodded once and then walked to the sofa she indicated, sitting down and unbuttoning his jacket as he did so. “I need to talk to you about something important.”

“Alright,” she replied anxiously, setting herself down at the opposite end of the sofa quite slowly, almost as if she was afraid it would burst into flame. “Is this about the MLE or—”

“Or you and I?”

“Yes.”

He hesitated, grey eyes darting away from brown to stare across the room. She hated this, this feeling of uneasiness that was currently eating at her insides, making it difficult to breathe. She’d successfully avoided Draco until now, hiding away with her tea and bookshop. If he was seeking out, then something significant must have happened. When he finally refocused on her, she was surprised to see worry etched in face.

“It’s both, I suppose,” he answered honestly, and she inhaled sharply. “I want to apologize, first of all. I should have defended you to my parents, not taken their side.” Running a hand through his blonde hair, he sighed. “I know the _hell_ my father put you through growing up during the War, and I shouldn’t have let him get into my head. You deserve more than that.”

“Right.” It was all she could think of to say, old feelings bubbling to the surface and making her feel hurt and angry all over again. Clenching her fists in her lap, she waited patiently for him to continue.

“I shouldn’t have called you a bushy-haired know-it-all either,” he added, looking at his lap, an embarrassed blush staining his pale cheeks.

Tugging at her lip with her teeth, she ignored the impulse to reach out and take his hand, knowing that’s not what either of them needed right now. Instead, she sighed heavily, causing him to glance back up at her. “It’s alright. I forgive you...”

“You do? Then, you’ll give me another chance?” There was such hope in his voice that she hated to squash it, but he’d broken her completely, and there was no going back to where they’d been before, even if she wasn’t currently seeing someone else. “I know I can be the man that you need, the man that deserves your love.”

She was shaking her head now, and he was staring at her in disbelief, but before he could say anything to try and persuade her, she held up her hand. “Draco, I loved you with my entire being. You and I—we were like the sun and the moon, partners that made the world go round, but destined to never be with one another.” Pushing the hair out of her face, she continued, “You have to understand that we could never be entirely happy together as much as it pains me to say that.”

“How can you say that? We were brilliant as a couple—the envy of the Ministry.”

He was leaning forward, almost as if he wanted to grab for her hands. She prayed he didn’t touch her, because if he did, she’d surely lose her ever loving mind and fall back into the rabbit hole. So trying to be practical, she decided to burst his little fairytale bubble. She felt a fire burning in her soul, one she’d not felt in quite some time, one she’d thought she’d put out.

“I didn’t want to be the envy of the Ministry, Draco!” She snapped, “I didn’t want everyone looking to me as if I was this perfect person up on this pedestal of greatness!” She threw her hands up, letting go of her resentment. “I just wanted to be with you and make the Wizarding world a better place, but you couldn’t let it be, could you?”

She was screaming now, unable to control the rush of emotions inside of her. She probably sounded erratic, crazy even, but this needed to be said. “You and your parents, always trying to mold me into what was expected of a Pureblooded wife! Well, Draco, I don’t know if you realized this, but I was never going to be a Pureblood wife! I’m not a Pureblood, as you bloody well liked to remind me over and over _and over_ again all through our childhood!”

“Sweet Salazar, Hermione!” Draco raised his voice along with her, “Why do you _always_ bring that up! I haven’t called you a Mudblood in well over two decades, but here we are again.” He gestured between the two of them. “I’m here fighting for you, _wanting_ to be with you, and you just keep finding reasons to tear us apart.”

“You have some preconceived notion of what you want from me, and I can’t be that person, Draco. I’m far from perfect. I’m broken from the War. I have nightmares and tremors, and being shoved into the limelight only makes it worse for me.” She was squeezing her hands into fists, the nails digging into her palms.

“I’ve apologized for all of that, Hermione. If you just let me in, you’d see I can be different, that what happened before was a mistake that I can fix.” He placed a gentle hand on her knee, and she looked down at it, feeling hollow inside. “Please, let this go so we can get past it.”

“You know what, forget it,” she said, her voice shaking slightly, but much calmer than before. She couldn’t take much more of this fighting, it was wearing her dreadfully thin. “It’s fine, Draco. It’s all fine. I’ve moved on, and so should you.”

“Moved on?”

“Yes, now what have you come to talk to me about regarding the MLE?” Hoping he’d just ignore her comment and launch into work discussion, Hermione tried to appear stern. She was done rehashing their failed relationship, wanting nothing more than for him to state his business and leave her alone. Unfortunately, he wasn’t going to let it go.

“So it’s _true_ then, you’ve been seeing a Muggle.”

“Harry.” She felt betrayed by her best friend, but not surprised.

“Yes, he told me all about this Holmes man, which is part of the reason I’ve come to see you!” Draco was getting frustrated now, his cold eyes narrowing suspiciously at her.

“Not that it’s _any_ of your business, but yes—I _have_ been seeing someone!” Throwing her hands up, Hermione refused to look at her ex-lover any longer. “I don’t see what he has to do with any of this, so either tell me what you came for or get the hell out of my flat, Draco.”

“No.”

Whipping her head around to stare at Draco, she asked, “ _No_? Did you just tell me no? In my own flat!?” She was standing now, having no recollection of doing so. Taking a few pointed steps forward, she found herself in front of Draco, wand pointed threateningly at his throat. However, before she could open her mouth to either curse or scold Draco further, she felt a hand come down on her shoulder, effectively stopping her from doing something she’d regret.

“Come now, surely there’s no need for such violence, Hermione.”

Sherlock’s voice broke through the chaos of her mind, causing her to drop the wand. It clattered to the floor, and he let go of her shoulder to reach down and retrieve it, sliding it into her back pocket. She was trembling with fury, so Sherlock returned his hand to her shoulder, squeezing it in what she assumed was meant to be a soothing way.

“ _You_ ,” Draco seethed, surprise evident on his face at seeing the _Muggle_ he’d grown to hate from only a few short conversations with Potter.

“Yes, me.” Seemingly unimpressed by the apparent hostility aimed at him, he straightened his back, appearing much taller than normal. “Sherlock Holmes, and you must be Draco Malfoy.”

“That’s Draco Malfoy, Head of the Magical Law Enforcement Department, to you, Mr. Holmes.” Bristling, Draco tried to appear as tall and impressive as Sherlock made himself out to be. He’d worked hard to earn his place in the MLE, and granted he wouldn’t have the Department Head title if Hermione was still working there, he _was_ second in command until she’d left.

Waving his freehand, Sherlock drawled, “That’s a rather long name and title. I’ll stick with Mr. Malfoy. Saves time.” Using his grip on Hermione’s shoulder, he guided her to return to her seat on the sofa, choosing to take the chair instead. “Now, perhaps you can enlighten us as to why you’ve disturbed our morning.”

Openly flabbergasted, Draco glanced from Sherlock to Hermione before deciding he’d better clarify his abrupt visit. He’d have to table the relationship discussion for the moment, but he’d make sure to bring it up again later. “There’s a rogue Death Eater, and he’s apparently planning some sort of attack on Muggle London. I need your expertise in this area, Hermione. You’re the only one skilled enough to work this case with me.”

“I’m done with that line of work, Draco,” Hermione whispered, anxiously biting at her lip. “I can’t handle the trauma…the fighting. You know what I went through during the War. It affects me too severely…” She felt embarrassed to admit this to Draco, having kept her PTSD and depression from him during their relationship. Even though she’d spewed forth this information mere moments before, it was still such a private part of her that she felt wounded just thinking about it.

“Come on, Hermione. You know you’re the best, and right now, we need the best.” Draco continued to push the subject, ignoring the pained expression on Hermione’s face.

Sherlock; however, did not miss the subtle way her breathing changed, or how her right hand reached to rub her jumper covered scar… ‘ _Mudblood’_ it had read—he’d noticed it that morning, before untangling himself from her naked body to contemplate his feelings for the witch. Clearing his throat, he spoke aloud his concerns. “She’s answered you already—she does not wish to participate in your investigation. It’s not good for her.”

“ _Good_ for her? What right do you have to advise me of such things? _You’re_ certainly no good for her, feeding her tales of your reckless crime solving adventures. Does she know of your blatant disregard for authority? Or the fact that you’re a recovering drug addict?” At Sherlock’s slight narrowing of eyes, Draco smirked. “Didn’t think I knew _that_ little detail, did you?”

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock steepled his hands under his chin, leaning forward in the chair he sat. His clever eyes flicked over Draco once before he began to speak, voice low, but audible. “Good for her? No, not at all, but then again, neither are you. You, who has always managed to get his own way, spoiled without regard for how it would affect you in adulthood, or how it would affect your relationships.”

Sitting to the side, Hermione cringed, knowing Sherlock was completely accurate in his deductions, but unable to make herself speak—to stop the madness that was slowly unraveling in front of her. With bated breath, she waited for him to continue, and to see exactly how Draco would react.

“You know _nothing_ about me,” Draco raged, moving to tower over Sherlock. “Do not pretend you know _who_ I am, or _what_ I have been through.”

Slouching back in the chair, a cocky sort of expression formed on the consulting detective’s face. “You’re the son of two well-off parents, never _wanting_ for a single thing your entire life thus far. While your mother was eager to dote on her only child, your father was well practiced in emotional and verbal abuse, a fact your mother never picked up on. Or rather, she did and chose to ignore it instead.” Gesturing at Draco’s attire, he added, “And judging by your fancy Wizarding robes, ones that are suited to men much older, you are still trying to prove yourself worthy of your father’s affection.”

“You pompous wanker,” Draco roared, glaring down at Sherlock. “And what of you, you with your _perfectly_ tailored suit that hides your personal insecurities?” This time it was Draco gesturing at Sherlock’s attire. “You carry an arrogance about you as if you’re far superior to everyone in the room, when in reality, you’re just trying to distract from the fact that you have absolutely no clue how to deal with human emotions.”

The smug look fell from Sherlock’s face, his clasped hands coming to rest in his lap. There was a truth behind Draco’s words, and he found himself glancing tentatively at Hermione, wondering if she realized he had absolutely no concept of how to handle what was developing between them. He’d researched relationships in the past, for cases, but never had he been truly a part of a relationship. Well, there was John, but then again, he and John never were together. Draco had hit a nerve, a sore one.

“I can admit that emotions are a somewhat foreign concept to me, just ask my brother, or John. However, the distraction in the room is coming from you, rather, and in the form of this hostility.” Sherlock paused here, ready to get this conversation over and done with. “Are you sincerely fighting for her affection, or does this stem from merely wanting to prove daddy wrong? Just another privileged wizard going against his family’s wishes in an attempt to prove something.”

“I happen to be in love with her,” Draco hissed, his eyes bulging ever so slightly in his rage.

“Love? Is that what you call it? Or is this just you not wanting to come in second to her and her friends once more?” Sherlock knew he hit just the right nerve as soon as the words left his mouth.

Draco surged forward, his arm coming back as if he intended to punch Sherlock. Seeing this, Hermione threw herself between the two, arms extended, successfully thwarting her ex-lover’s plans to ruin Sherlock’s perfect face.

“Whoa! Okay, that’s enough— _both_ of you,” she scolded, glaring at them each in turn. Draco was breathing heavily while Sherlock remained nonchalant, reclining in the chair. Finally standing, Sherlock buttoned his suit jacket, a satisfied expression on his face. The three of them stood there for a few moments, glancing back and forth amongst each other.

Draco broke the silence, shaking his head. He was done speaking with Sherlock bloody Holmes—he’d come to address Hermione, so that’s what he did now. “What’s it going to be Hermione? Are you going to stay here with his guy, selling tea and books, or are you going to come back to the MLE and help me figure out this case?”

Sighing heavily, Hermione smiled sadly. “Don’t make me choose, because when it comes down to it, you both know I’ll always choose myself.” Stepping away from the two men, she made her way to the windows, looking outside at the street below. She said nothing else, letting the silence speak for itself. When she heard the rustle of a coat being put on, and the thud of footsteps on the hardwood flooring, she glanced over her shoulder. Sherlock stood by the door, and when his eyes met hers, she nodded.

“Thank you for allowing me to stay the night, Hermione,” he said, tying his scarf around his neck. “I do hope we meet again.” And then, with a final pointed glare at Draco, Sherlock opened the door and disappeared. Hermione watched from the window as he exited the building, and then hurried up the alleyway out of sight, heading for the wall he would climb back into the Muggle world. She missed him already.

“I suppose I should be going as well, if you have nothing else to say,” Draco acknowledged, heading to the door that remained open. Pausing in the entryway, he waited for some sort of response from Hermione, but finding none, exited, leaving her alone with her thoughts. He knew when she needed time and space, so that’s what he would give her. For now at least.

Pulling the curtains closed with a bit more force than necessary, Hermione plunged the room into semi-darkness. She had a difficult decision to make—did she return to the MLE and join forces with Draco and the other Aurors to try and find this rogue Death Eater, or did she continue to see Sherlock, feeding him information to help him solve his own case?

There was a third option as well.

Did she disappear completely, leaving everything she knew behind in search of her own peace and happiness? Whatever she decided, it would have to be soon, for night would arrive sooner than later, and Sherlock would be coming to see her again.

Nights in Diagon Alley were about to get far more interesting.


	13. Thirteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had some time to write today and managed to get this done! I know it’s been awhile, but I’ve not forgotten. Only two more chapters after this one! Happy holidays! Love xxDustNight

Hermione never opened her shop that day. Instead, she remained inside her flat, pacing and contemplating her next move. No one tried to contact her, which was a both a relief and a surprise considering the events of the morning. She knew Draco would run to Harry, throwing accusations and half-truths at him in an attempt to get her best friend on his side. Desperately, she hoped Harry was smarter than that, but considering past events, it was difficult to tell. If he showed up, she’d talk to him nonetheless. It wasn’t his fault Draco always ran to him when it came to their relationship troubles.

And speaking of relationship troubles, what had he thought barging in on her and professing she get back together with him? She’d made her decision perfectly clear, leaving nearly all of her belongings behind when she’d left him all those years ago. Her heart hurt just thinking back on it, the memories of that night making her sick. She’d loved him with everything she had, and she thought he felt the same. Perhaps he did, but insisting she should follow Pureblood protocols and set aside her own morals, no—that was something she simply would not do. So she’d left him.

As the day wore on, Hermione made herself a small lunch of a sandwich and a cup of tea, but she yearned for something more, something she couldn’t explain. After eating and tidying up the flat, she wandered into her study and perused the bookshelves there. Trailing her fingers over the spines, some new and others ancient, she decided she might as well do a bit of research pertaining to the case Draco mentioned. Gathering what resources she needed, along with a few copies of the most recent _Daily Prophet_ , she settled in at her old oak desk to get started.

The sun was beginning to fade when she finally made some headway. Thanks to Sherlock, she discovered a few discarded Muggle newspapers left on her desk, so she used those to cross reference her information. He’d meticulously scribbled his own notes and inferences in the margins, even circling bits and drawing arrows to other articles. It was almost like a glimpse into his mind palace, a place she so desperately wished she could visit. After hours of pouring over the information, Hermione made a surprising discovery.

With a start, she sat back in her chair, eyes scouring the parchment strewn in front of her. If she was correct, and she was fairly certain she was, then that meant Draco and Sherlock were searching for the same person. Whoever was tormenting the Muggle community and sending Sherlock cryptic messages from seemingly beyond the grave was the same unknown Death Eater the Ministry was on high alert for. Shaking her head, her curls bouncing on her shoulders, Hermione pushed her chair away from the desk, fleeing for the door.

She needed out. She needed away from all of this. There was no way she could handle being part of such an investigation. Running to her bedroom, she dropped to her knees and withdrew her suitcase from underneath the messy bed. Throwing it atop the surface, she frantically searched the room for clothing and trinkets she would need. While she folded and packed, she thought about where she could go—America made the most sense. The Wizarding community there was private, selective almost, and she could hide away there…far away from Death Eaters and hate crimes against Muggleborns.

Hell, she could even pretend to be a Muggle if she had to.

When her suitcase was full to the brim, she backed away, carding a hand through her frazzled curls. This was crazy. _She_ was being crazy. Running…always, _always_ running. With shaky hands she reached for the suitcase, willing herself to shut the lid, to pick it up and just leave. She couldn’t do it. Instead, she dumped the blasted thing onto the floor, ignoring the mess she made. She couldn’t leave. Not now…not ever. Maybe. Taking deep, even breaths, Hermione walked from the room, returning to her study to stand in the doorway.

She tugged at her chapped lip with her teeth as she pondered what to do next. She ought to floo Harry and inform him of her findings, or Draco even, but what she wanted more than anything was to see Sherlock. That terrified her more than anything. More than the thought of having to go back to the MLE and deal with Draco on a daily basis or at all. Sherlock had known nothing about her world, but he’d taken to it easily, learning almost as quickly as she had. If she waited for darkness, he would come. She knew he would.

He always did when she needed him the most…

But did she need him now? Did she need anyone?

No.

With a strangled cry of frustration, Hermione turned around and returned to her bedroom once more. Feeling as though she would cry at any minute, she repacked her suitcase with a desperation that frightened her. She would leave this place. She would say goodbye to Diagon Alley forever. There was nothing to stay for…no reason…absolutely none.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 

Night had descended on Diagon Alley long ago, and Hermione stood leaning against the back of her building, an unlit cigarette dangling from her red-painted lips. Reaching up, she swiped angrily at the tear smudges underneath her eyes. She’d cried enough this evening, and didn’t want him to see her this way—an unstable mess. Fingering the lighter in her pocket, she contemplated lighting the cigarette, wanting the rush of nicotine to calm her nerves, but knowing it wouldn’t give her what she truly needed right now.

When you pack and unpack your bags nearly ten times in an attempt to run away from your problems, your emotions, your _feelings_ , you learn a lot about yourself. Sometimes you learn things you didn’t even know you knew. There would be a time for running, but it would not be this night. This night there were more important things to attend to—namely what she was going to do about this Death Eater.

Shivering, Hermione realized Harry would have received her owl by now. He’d have called in Draco and the other Aurors and MLE officials. There was only one thing left to take care of, and if she remained the only person in this Alley tonight, then all would be for naught. Then, and only then, would she disappear. With trembling hands, she withdrew her lighter from the warmth of her pocket, deciding she might as well have a smoke while she waited. Flicking the end, she watched as the glowing flame appeared, illuminating her face in the darkness.

Before she could light her only vice, there was a shuffling from the far end of the alley. She lowered her hand and watched as Sherlock climbed over the wall. He moved slowly, as if he was unsure of her presence. He ran a hand through his dark curls, not quite meeting her gaze as he moved towards her in the darkness. Releasing her hold on the lighter, the flame was extinguished, and she swallowed. As he came to a stop in front of her, he wrapped his long coat more securely around his tall frame. Hermione felt her mouth go dry, her nerves making her heart pound.

They stood staring at one another for a long moment, both clearly unsure of what to do or say next. Sherlock’s mysterious eyes flickered over her features, lingering on her painted lips. She wanted to scream at him to kiss her, to take her upstairs, but now was not the time for such admissions. They had work to do…and she suspected Sherlock knew this, her own suspicions confirmed as he took a half-step backwards, out of her personal space.

“I thought you would have fled by now,” he said with honesty, eyes sweeping the area as if looking for a suitcase. She’d thrown the luggage against the wall of her bedroom, breaking the hinges hours earlier. It was useless now. She’d have to either repair it or buy a new one. It didn’t matter either way. He didn’t know this though, but she knew he could sense her uneasiness.

Sighing heavily, she plucked the useless cigarette from her lips and tossed it aside before meeting his heavy stare. She needed to tell him what she knew—that the man he was searching for was a Death Eater and he needed to leave the case alone. So, with her heart pounding in her chest so loudly he could probably hear, she shrugged and attempted to tell him the truth. Only, she panicked, an entirely different kind of truth tumbling from her lips.

“I’m in love with you.”


	14. Fourteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Sorry for taking forever (Not really forever, but you know what I mean.) Thank you to everyone for the reviews and love! This is the second to last chapter of this story. Please enjoy and leave me some lovely feedback when you’re finished! xxDustNight

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

_“I’m in love with you.”_

Her eyes widened in surprise as the words settled around them. That was definitely _not_ what she’d intended on telling him. She’d only come to the realization that her feelings were stronger than originally thought earlier that evening. Biting her lip, she glanced up at Sherlock’s face, suddenly feeling on the verge of panic. He was still staring down at her, but it was as if he’d zoned out…gone into his Mind Palace.

“Sherlock?” The question was quiet, her uncertainty clearly evident. When he didn’t reply, didn’t even blink, she began to feel worried. What had she done? “Sherlock? Sherlock can you hear me?” Gently, she reached up and brushed the curls from his forehead, her palm then sliding down to cup his cheek. The contact must have reawakened him, his eyes blinking rapidly before focusing on her face.

She opened her mouth, to take back the words she’d so foolishly uttered, but found there was no need. Sherlock surged forward, using both hands to hold her face before capturing her lips in a sensuous kiss. He pushed her backward into the wall, securing her there with his body. She moaned into his mouth, practically melting as his tongue caressed hers. The kiss went on and on until Hermione knew she would most certainly pass out from lack of oxygen. Only then did Sherlock part from her lips, placing gentle kisses on her cheeks and her forehead before moving to whisper in her ear.

“While I have never been one to understand basic human emotion,” he explained, his breath making her shiver, “I find that I absolutely adore you as well, Hermione.” Placing a searing kiss behind her ear, he retreated, but only far enough so he could look into her chocolate eyes. “May I take you upstairs and show you exactly how much I love you?”

Hermione had to bite back a moan at his words, a warmth filling her body along with a rush of emotions. She felt her knickers begin to dampen when she realized what he wanted to do to her, so she nodded slowly, reaching out to take his hand in hers. Together they moved quickly but silently back through the alley and through the door that led upstairs to Hermione’s flat.

Once they were safely closed inside her living room, Sherlock tugged her back into his arms and resumed kissing her, his tongue describing exactly what he planned on doing to her shortly. It was intoxicating, and Hermione quickly divested him of his jacket, allowing it to pool at their feet. Breaking their kiss, she met his heated gaze, hands coming to rest on his hips before tugging at his crisp, white shirt. Her fingers slid underneath, feeling his smooth skin and making him tremble. As she did this, he unfasted the buttons, shrugging out of the shirt and tossing it aside.

Leaning forward, Hermione peppered his naked chest with kisses, beginning to back them down the hall and towards her bedroom. Halfway down the hall, Sherlock stopped her to press her into the wall, kissing her frantically as he practically tore her jumper from her body. Her boots and jeans were next, nearly causing them to trip as they continued the journey to her room. When they reached the door, he reached down and lifted Hermione easily, slamming her body into the barrier as her legs wrapped around his waist.

Hermione let out a moan of desire as his arousal pressed into her lace-covered sex. She was practically panting, grinding herself into him as his mouth covered hers again. His kisses were addicting, and she wasn’t sure what she needed more—him inside of her or more of his mouth on hers. Reaching down, she turned the doorknob, opening her room to him. He held tight to her as they tumbled backward into the room, tripping over the scattered remains of her failed attempts at packing. At the foot of the bed, Sherlock allowed her to extract herself from his arms before removing his trousers.

Once he joined her on the bed, Hermione pulled him atop her body, covering herself completely and eliminating any and all space between them. Sherlock sighed into the crook of her neck, and used his nose to trace her jawline. Her hands smoothed down his back before cupping his behind and squeezing. Her legs fell open entirely, inviting Sherlock to take her. Lifting himself up, he moved her knickers to the side and allowed Hermione to guide the tip of his cock to her entrance. She was slick and ready, and he waited no time before sliding inside.

Hermione gasped as he filled her completely, her fingers digging into his flesh. “Mmmmm,” she mumbled incoherently as he began to move, his hips forming a rhythm. “Yes, Sherlock… _please_ …” He took her words to heart, making love to her slowly, absolutely. Bringing his forehead to hers, he looked her in the eyes as they moved together. She’d never felt so utterly connected to another soul in her entire life as she did in that moment.

It wasn’t long before he was bringing her to orgasm, his hips angled perfectly as he continued moving in and out of her heated core. She cried out as her body quaked, Sherlock watching as she fell apart in his arms. He followed thereafter, her contracting walls triggering his own release. He kissed her swollen lips, her nose, closed eyelids…he kissed her anywhere he could reach.

As their bodies stilled, Sherlock allowed himself to roll to the side, bringing Hermione with him. She didn’t curl into his side though; instead, she straddled his waist so she could lay with her body on his, wanting to be as close as possible right now. As she settled her head on his chest, Sherlock laced his hands together on her back, a calm settling in the room. Together they remained like that for quite some time; not speaking, but rather relishing in the comfort the other provided.

Hermione couldn’t remember the last time she felt so content, so loved. Taking a deep breath, she knew she couldn’t keep the truth from Sherlock forever; and now that she knew he felt the same as she did, she had to do everything in her power to protect him from himself. Opening her eyes, she glanced up at Sherlock to find him already staring down at her, his head propped up on her pillow as he watched her go to war with her inner turmoil.

“You already know what I’m going to say, don’t you,” she questioned him, her heart thudding in her chest. She listed to his heart below her head, the steady beating giving nothing away.

“We are searching for the same man—Moriarty.”

“Yes.”

“Tell me how he is alive—how he is a wizard.”

Swallowing thickly, Hermione ran a hand through her sweat-damp curls. “I don’t think he’s a true wizard, to be honest. I believe he was forced to hide his powers, becoming something more terrifying than you can even imagine. He was at the same orphanage as Tom Riddle, albeit years after. That is where he learned about him…about Voldemort and all the horrible things that he did and was capable of doing still.”

“And now he is seeking vengeance for the Dark Wizard that terrorized your kind.”

“That is what my research indicates, yes.” Her wide, brown eyes met Sherlock’s level stare, and she already knew what he was thinking. He wanted to find Moriarty and bring him to justice. She shivered with fear now, her body trembling in the chill of the room. “Please, Sherlock…you can’t go after him. Let Harry, Draco, and the other Aurors bring him in. It’s too dangerous for you, for me even…”

“I have to do this. It is because of _my_ mistakes that he is still alive, and I will make sure he can’t hurt anyone ever again.” He glanced away from her briefly before adding, “I can’t let him hurt you.”

“You have to let this go,” she pleaded, tears filling her eyes. “He will be the end of you…the end of us all.” This was why she wanted to leave, to just disappear from this place. She couldn’t bear having to witness Sherlock dying at the hands of Moriarty. She loved him far too much for her own good. She loved Sherlock too much to even think clearly in a battle against this man, this wizard.

Unclasping his hands from behind her back, Sherlock pushed into a sitting position, bringing her with him. She said nothing as he tucked a curl behind her ear, eyes raking over her concerned face. “He may be the end of me, but I will not allow him to be the end of you, Hermione.”

As the tears began to cascade down her cheeks, Hermione grabbed hold of Sherlock’s face and kissed him deeply, pouring her turbulent emotions into the embrace. He held tight to her, kissing her back with just as much fervor. Neither of them may survive this, but they would go into battle together, of that Hermione was certain.

Dark times lie ahead, but the game was on.


	15. Fifteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is it—the last chapter! I struggled to write this because it’s always so bittersweet ending a story. I’m glad there will be a sequel, although I’m not sure when that will get started. I plan on focusing on Empire and Partners in Time for a while before I dive back into this. Just make sure to keep an eye out for Nights in 221B ;) Thank you again for all the lovely reviews, follows, and favorites for this story. I hope you’ve enjoyed this short little fic! Love always, xxDustNight

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Sitting silently across from one another in her shop, Hermione and Sherlock said nothing as their tea grew cold. They were waiting on Harry to arrive, having heard from him earlier that morning via owl. They’d spent the day drifting between the bedroom and her study, making love or conducting further research. While nerves simmered just below the surface, they managed to find enough distractions to keep from going mad.

Hermione had told Harry to make sure he came alone, leaving Draco out of their meeting so he would not make presumptuous comments about her decision to not return to him. She no longer felt anything but contempt for the wizard, wanting nothing to do with him besides this one last case. Draco would probably try and sway her decision as he always did, so keeping him away was the best option for the time being.

Tracing the rim of her teacup with her fingertip, Hermione glanced at Sherlock through her eyelashes. He was reading a book on Voldemort, a look of deep concentration on his face. She was concerned about him, about how far he was willing to go to take Moriarty down once and for all. She recalled the story of him faking his death to protect those he loved before, and worried what he might do if it came to such extremes this time around. She could no longer imagine a world without him in it, her entire being tuned into his every action.

It was ridiculous of course, having always been so independent, but there was something about Sherlock that made her never want to be alone again. Slowly, he lifted his gaze from the book and caught her watching him. A smirk slid onto his lips and he set aside the tome. He was just about to say something, his eyes sparkling with mischief, when the door to the shop opened and in walked Harry, a grim expression on his face.

The two turned their attention to the new arrival, Hermione rising from her seat to meet him halfway. Her oldest friend ran a hand through his messy hair, making it stick up more than usual. He glanced briefly at Sherlock, offering him a nod of acknowledgement before turning his attention to Hermione. She stopped walking, heart hammering in her chest when she realized he was not there with good news.

“He got away, didn’t he?”

“We tracked him to what was rumored to be his last location, but it was empty,” Harry explained somberly. “There were no traces, magical or otherwise, for us to follow. We’re essentially at a dead end until he pops up again.”

“You mean, until he kills again,” she whispered, fear making her stomach churn. “What are we going to do?” She turned to Sherlock with a wide-eyed look of panic. Calmly, he stood from the table, gathering his coat around him as he joined the pair in the middle of the room.

“We will have to draw him out,” Sherlock elucidated, a look of determination already on his face.

“What!?” Hermione practically shrieked, reaching out to grab hold of his forearm. “Absolutely not—we talked about this! We were going to be careful and not do anything rash.” Sherlock said nothing and she swallowed, hard. He wasn’t going to budge on this, and she knew it. Turning back toward Harry, she hoped he’d be on her side. But when she saw his gaze trained on Sherlock, she knew she was alone in her thoughts.

“What do you have in mind,” Harry probed, eyes narrowed behind black frames.

Eyeing the wizard warily, Sherlock contemplated how much to share of his plans. As he buttoned his jacket, he stepped forward to stare down at Harry. “It will take some time to set my trap. I’ll need to return to Baker Street and consult with Dr. Watson.” Turning to Hermione, he placed a surprisingly gentle kiss upon her cheek. “Meet me in the back alleyway.” Then, he turned and exited the shop, door snapping shut behind him.

Hermione started to move after him, but Harry stopped her, grabbing hold of her hand. “Harry, let go—I need to go and talk him out of whatever insane plan he’s formulating.” When Harry didn’t let go, merely stared at her with a sad expression in his green eyes, she finally stopped struggling. Sighing heavily, she dropped her gaze, blinking back the tears that began to form.

“Relax, Hermione. He’s not going to leave without saying goodbye to you first.” Harry released her hand, crossing his arms instead. “Now, tell me…how long have you been in love with him?”

“I—I don’t know,” she admitted, lifting her head and wiping at her eyes. “It sort of hit me yesterday, but it’s undeniable.” Wetting her lips, Hermione watched as her best friend contemplated her words. Knowing how close he was to Draco, she worried that he’d try and talk her out of her feelings, and back into the blond’s arms. He surprised her though, coming forward and wrapping her in a hug.

“Stop worrying so much. I promise we’re going to catch this Moriarty character and then everything will be right in our world again.” Hermione pulled away, glaring at her friend.

“Not just our world, Harry—the _entire_ world. Don’t forget this man has been tormenting Muggles _in addition to_ the Muggleborns and Halfbloods.”

“I understand that, but don’t you think it’s time you stopped hiding away? You should come back to the Ministry. It’s where you belong.”

“You mean back to Draco! Say it, Harry! Just go ahead and say it!” She was practically screaming now, chest heaving and curls flying about as she lost control of her emotions. It was rare that she fell into this sort of behavior, but Harry was pushing her limits with this conversation. She didn’t want or _need_ to go back to work at the MLE or Draco’s _waiting_ arms.

“Whoa,” Harry tried calming her down, his hands held up in front of him. “That’s not what I’m saying at all. The Ministry is _nothing_ without your critical mind. You used to love writing policies and making sure the Aurors and MLE officers were in line; not to mention, solving difficult cases. I know you suffer from PTSD…I do too, but I think it would do you some good to come out of this shell you’ve formed around yourself. I’m not trying to get you back together with Draco…no at all. His voice grew quiet then, shoulders sagging in defeat. “I told him just this morning he needed to let you go…that you’ve moved on.”

Pacing, Hermione tried to get her frantic breathing under control. She periodically glanced at Harry, trying to articulate the thoughts that were spiraling through her mind. Finally she stopped, facing her long-time friend after mulling over his words. “I’ve been ensconced in this world since I was eleven years old,” she told Harry, dragging her hands through her curly hair. She was tired of being reminded that she was a witch—she was so much _more_ than that, she just needed time and space to figure out exactly what.

Harry was quiet for a spell, watching as she continued to war with her inner chaos. “What are you planning to do,” he questioned, a bit of trepidation underlying the words. Watching as she walked to the darkened front window of the shop, he felt a sense of dread building in his chest.

She laughed then, a short bark that didn’t sound the least bit entertained. Turning slowly away from the window, she sighed heavily before shrugging. “I was hoping you wouldn’t ask me that.”

“Hermione…”

She held up her hand, walking over and wrapping Harry in a hug of her own. “Shhh,” she whispered into his shoulder. “Please don’t say anything else—just…just let me go.” When she released him and backed away, she was surprised to see the wetness on his cheeks. Nodding at him, she walked toward the door, opening it and stepping into the night. She didn’t turn around, refusing to see the look of disappointment in his eyes, or the broken one that followed when he finally realized she wasn’t stopping…

Sherlock was waiting for her at the back of the shop, a blank expression on his face. He didn’t look surprised, but then again, he never did. Without a word, he climbed the wall, moving to stand on the ledge. Hermione stared up at him, contemplating what she was about to do. Could she truly go through with her plan? Could she seriously leave everything she knew behind just so she could help bring down this criminal? Without asking what was on her mind, what she intended, he crouched down, extending his right hand to her.

Knowing she needed to decide quickly, Hermione briefly closed her eyes. Memories of the past washed upon her, making her tremble and new tears prick at her eyes. If she remained, she’d be bombarded with requests to return to the Ministry, but if she left…if she left, she would be free to do as she wished. And Sherlock would be by her side. Her heartbeat sped up at that thought and she opened her eyes, brown locking onto that strange bluish-green that made her think of the sea. Exhaling slowly, she came to a decision.

She stepped forward, taking Sherlock’s hand and allowing him to help her climb atop the wall. Hermione paused, worrying her lip as she glanced over her shoulder, back down the alleyway that led to the Wizarding world. She wasn’t sure if she would ever return, so she took a moment to take it all in. With a deep, shuddering breath, she turned away, bidding farewell to her magical past and nights in Diagon Alley.


End file.
